Some days subsequently, Plautia stood with her arms resting on the parapet
of the garden wall which edged the cliffs.
Her mood was one of profound abstraction, and the fixed gaze of her eyes
seemed to be unconscious of the endless beauties of the scene which lay
within the scan of that giddy height. The rays of the autumn sunlight,
mingling with the opal‐coloured light, the deepening shades of the
whispering sea, the changing tints of the mountains, and the white gleam
of the cities fringing the sweep of the distant shores, were far from her
mind. No sound arose to the secluded spot on high, save the mysterious
murmur of nature, so favourable to an utter absorption of mind, until the
grate of a human foot behind aroused her with a start. Turning round she
beheld Afer standing within a few yards, gazing at her intently.
Since the banquet the manner of Plautia had become that of one quite
reconciled to her situation. Nay, it rather betokened satisfaction and
pleasure judging by outward manifestation. She had seemingly earned
complete freedom also, since she came and went wherever and whenever she
pleased, without being subjected to any galling symptom of restraint. Her
apartments were free of access to whosoever chose to visit her, though
these were necessarily few in number. To Tiberius himself she jestingly
contrasted her later freedom with her first day’s experience. He lightly
returned, that he prided himself upon the better judgment he had shown, in
perceiving the unreality of her momentary dissatisfaction; and that now,
since time had proved him to be right, she might call herself the Queen of
Capreae, and do aught her mind might fancy, save attempt to quit the
island. This he added smilingly, with the customary shake of his
forefinger; but, whether it was an earnest injunction veiled in jest,
Plautia had not as yet thought proper to prove.
In accordance with this disposition of affairs Afer had first presented
himself at her apartments, and, by direction of her attendants, had
followed her to the garden.
His cheeks seemed hollower and more drawn, and his glance was haggard and
restless. For the rest, his attire and bearing were unchanged in their
faultless taste and neatness. Plautia did not quit her position, but
simply turned her back against the wall, with her elbows thrust behind her
on the top of the stones. The grace of her splendid form was thus
admirably displayed, but the posture was strongly suggestive of careless
indifference. The languid gaze, and the lifeless drawl of her salutation,
were even more devoid of the sense of politeness; but he, nevertheless,
drew nearer to her.
‘They told me you were here, so I made bold to follow you,’ he said. ‘No
wonder the evening has tempted you forth with its loveliness.’
She gave a faint yawn, and turned her glance languidly another way, in a
manner distinctly rude and heedless.
His gloomy eyes flashed, and his hand clenched for a moment in anger.
‘I have interfered with your solitary enjoyment of the scene.’
‘I was thinking nothing of it,’ she replied carelessly.
‘Intent, perhaps, upon the thoughts of Rome, far away across the waters
there—your eyes seemed fixed in that direction.’
‘You are mistaken.’
‘Pardon, Plautia, for having intruded myself so unpleasantly and untimely.
It is all the more to be regretted, inasmuch as I sought you with the hope
of your favour, having just received letters from Rome.’
‘And how could the letters of Titus Afer possibly concern me?’
‘Being discursive they might probably contain something to interest you,
in the current affairs of the city we love so well.’
‘Humph!’ she said drily, with her gaze still fixed down the garden. ‘You
are speaking for yourself. You are growing thin and pale, Afer, and
absence from the city you love so well is trying you. You are fretting
after the airy height of the Esquiline, and the view of the housetops from
your own portico.’
‘You, who have left it so recently, can so far afford to mock me,’ he
retorted sarcastically. ‘I will plead guilty to the charge in order not to
spoil the jest.’
‘It is not worth another word.’
‘My correspondent tells me that Rome is wondering what is passing in the
island here.’
‘It is not surprising in the city, when one considers the power and
importance of the absentees—including yourself!’ said she.
‘Of course,’ responded Afer, growing paler; ‘nor, at the same time, must
such a powerful factor in the Imperial destinies as the beauty of Plautia
be omitted.’
Plautia smiled and showed her pearly teeth, and the face of the knight
grew whiter than ever.
‘It seems that, surprised as the poor exiles on this island were at your
appearance, the citizens are even more mystified at your disappearance
there. It is totally inexplicable. Rumour says you have been stolen,
murdered, and so on’ (Plautia’s smile deepened as she caught the fiercely
suppressed tremor of anger in his voice); ‘or translated to the
companionship of the immortals, after the fashion of old,’ he continued;
‘that is even believed in. One individual, at least, is inconsolable,
frantic, desperate—mad, if you like. Searching day and night—wandering
sleepless like a spectre.’
‘Only one, Afer—do they tell you of only one?’ she said ironically.
‘Only one in such sad straits,’ he responded. ‘You can guess probably who
it is.’
Plautia shrugged her shoulders carelessly.
‘So may one love you and perish—O wretched example!’ he said bitterly. ‘If
the miserable man could only have seen that careless shrug of your
pitiless shoulders.’
‘The idiot—he has seen many such, doubtless. Am I to be answerable for the
presumption of such fools?’ said she, turning her head swiftly toward him
with a withering blast of scorn and contempt.
The knight’s face became like pallid marble, but, apparently impenetrable,
he replied—
‘Surely not, if it be of their own cultivation. There can be no blame to
you.’
‘Thanks!’
‘Nevertheless one should feel pity and not scorn; for who knows how soon
the same fate may overtake oneself? Ill‐starred Martialis is not the first
nor the last who has suffered from misplaced infatuation.’
Her face was in profile, and his eyes scanned it keenly.
‘Of course Plautia knows I am speaking of Caius Martialis, the bosom
friend of Apicius,’ he went on, with slow distinctness. ‘There is also
another Martialis, his brother Lucius, a Centurion of the Pretorian guard,
at present in attendance here on our worthy friend the Prefect. Do you
know this one?’
‘It matters not whether I do or not; it is not worth the trouble to try
and remember. I am ever grateful for your visit, your company, your
entertaining conversation, which has beguiled my loneliness. And now I
must bid good‐night—it grows chilly.’
She roused herself from her leaning posture, and gathered up her drapery
preparatory to moving off. Afer’s eyes were still riveted on her
countenance. Her mocking words were easily borne after the insulting
demeanour already experienced. Something like a cold smile rested on his
lips as he watched her. He did not feel disposed to leave her yet. Her
behaviour had stung him deeply, and the bitterness which gnawed him so
grievously was too keen to be borne without the solace of retaliation. He
waited a few moments until she was on the point of retiring, without any
further notice of him, and then said, in a low voice—
‘It would be better worth your while than you think, Plautia, to strive to
remember if the soldier‐brother be amongst your acquaintance or not.’
‘Another time when I am more disposed,’ she sternly answered, beginning to
descend the grassy mound on which they stood.
‘At your own gracious pleasure,’ he repined, as he leisurely followed. ‘I
mentioned it, because I thought it might interest you to know, that
whether the acquaintance really exist or not, there are rumours in the
island of a somewhat close relationship between you.’
She stopped short, and turned round upon him—so swiftly and sharply, that
the skirts and folds of her garments whirled out on the air.
‘Rumours—what rumours? What close relationship? What do you mean?’ she
said, with the haughtiness of a queen to a slave.
‘Nothing, but what my words plainly convey. Let me repeat—it is said in
the island that a warm friendship exists between yourself and the
Centurion Martialis.’
‘And what of that? Is it not permitted to me to have warm friends as well
as others?’
He gently shrugged his shoulders, and the action brought the sudden fire
to her eyes and the colour to her cheeks. Noting the signs he looked down
and smiled covertly, to her intense irritation.
‘Do you wish to trifle with me, Afer?’ she said, in a dangerous tone.
‘I would rather brave Tiberius himself,’ he replied, with a bow, which was
lower than humility itself; ‘far from trifling, I merely alluded to that
which passes current in the island; but, if it be distasteful to you, I
regret I was the unlucky means of making it known.’
‘My friends are always of my choosing; I ever abide by my choice and
suffer no other interference. It is true I remember to have met the
younger Martialis on chance occasions in the city. It is hardly possible
that it should be otherwise, since the brother haunts me like a pestilent
shadow. That should all the more predispose me to increase the intimacy
with the name as little as possible. The tale of the elder brother’s folly
has followed even here, Afer, and the good idle Capreans have saddled it
on the wrong man—the mistake is obvious.’
‘That would have been the most probable explanation doubtless, if I were
sure that the idle babbling had arisen amongst the islanders themselves.’
‘Psa!’ ejaculated she, sweeping round again, as if contemptuously dropping
all further thought of the subject.
She walked on a few yards with the knight following. Then she turned
sharply round on her heel and confronted him again. The movement was
unexpected, and she caught a smile on his lip. She stamped her foot.
‘Tell me, what this is—what it all means! Quick, man!’
‘The thorn has stuck,’ he murmured imperceptibly, as he hesitated and
looked down.
‘Speak!’ continued the angry imperious tones.
‘I knew she could not rest with that prickle rankling in her mind,’ he
continued inwardly; ‘now her haughtiness shall dance to my piping and pay
for her insolence.’
A vehement snatch of her hand at his arm roused him.
‘Do you hear, Afer? Speak when I ask you!’
Raising his head he looked at her with provoking gravity, and his studied
deliberate manner easily attained the effect he designed for it.
At no time did she appear so superb, as when her impetuous blood was
stirred, and the excitement of anger glowed in her cheeks and flashed in
her eyes. He gazed upon her with a double gratification, for, while his
glance drank in the spectacle of her kindled beauty, his heart warmed with
a savage joy of power.
Her contemptuous bearing had filled him with a devouring tumult of
passions, none the less fierce, because of the powerful restraint which
stifled them.
All the arts of sympathetic love and compassion may be lavished on a mind
which lies numb in the chill death of its hope of hopes; but let the venom
of contempt be flung upon it, from a certain eye or lip, and it
straightway surges from its icy torpor with the fire and fury of deadly
hate.
Above the wild passion which sickened in the heart of Afer, struggled
resentment and profound indignation. He calmly looked back the flashing
gaze of his companion, and a faintly mocking smile curved his lips.
‘Yes, I hear,’ he said at length; ‘of what do you wish me to speak?’
‘Of what? You are bent on provoking me. Are we not talking—did you not
speak of some rumour or tavern gossip of the island at my expense?’
‘Since your appearance in Caesar’s villa, as a guest, the island is
mightily interested in you, and, naturally, the tongue follows the bent of
the mind. Many rumours and conjectures are doubtless rife concerning you.
To which would you have me refer?’
‘You are playing with me, I repeat—you dare to do so,’ she replied; and he
plainly saw the effort it cost her to speak, as she did, in a quiet tone.
‘You either know something, or nothing—to the point then, quickly.’
‘Your displeasure is so swift and heavy that it behoves me to be most
prudent and cautious. Give me to understand of what I am to speak——’
‘People call you wise and subtle, but, to me, your prudence and caution
savours very much of the profound wisdom of the bird of Minerva.’
‘It is a sapient fowl which flies about in the night‐time only, and,
doubtless, sees many strange things in moonlight and shade,’ said he.
‘Once again—do you refuse to answer me?’
‘Surely not, in reply to a direct question,’ he answered, as if taking a
malicious pleasure in forcing her to mention names.
‘I will give you a cue then,’ said she; ‘you mentioned rumours concerning
me—tell me all you know.’
‘There is only one worth repeating.’
‘And that refers to Martialis.’
She was pale, with the exception of a bright, red spot on either cheek,
and, perceiving by her look and tone, that it would be imprudent to try
her further, he nodded affirmatively.
‘And could you not say so before?’ she asked, with an indescribable sneer
which stung him to the quick.
‘Not until you yourself had uttered the name, should I have dared to
mention what might prove disagreeable,’ he replied derisively.
‘Proceed, then, and without fear.’
‘It will require but few words. You arrived in a mysterious manner; and,
it is said, you came hither of your own accord, because you could no
longer endure the absence of the handsome Centurion Martialis from Rome!’
‘Psa! You are too ridiculous.’
She laughed outright, but the knight, though he could not but admire her
self‐possession, could hardly fail to detect the false ring on her tones.
‘And this is the portentous secret you drag forth so mysteriously,’ she
cried; ‘this is what you have heard in the wine‐shops and on the Marina!
Worthy, idle Capreans! And you, Titus Afer—subtle Titus Afer—to what an
empty, pitiful condition of mind, has the sleepy stagnation of this pile
of rocks amid the sea brought you, that such an idle fable should so
occupy your thoughts as to relate it seriously and solemnly to me.’
‘I admit that one’s faculties are apt to rust amid the sluggish
tranquillity of this place,’ replied Afer, with a sigh of charming
softness. ‘The whole thing is absurd, but for the extraordinary fact, that
the wonderful story is not the production of the gossips themselves.
Instead of being born in the village below, it has flowed from the villa
above—from headquarters itself.’
As a matter of fact, the details of Plautia’s romantic adventure had
spread no further than the reader is already aware of, but the
unscrupulous knight knew the power of such a statement, false as it was,
and, therefore, made it without hesitation. To have given the rumour on
the authority of the simple islanders themselves, was to have rendered it
of no weight with her; but to boldly state that it proceeded from the
villa, was at once to load her with the maddening suspicion that she had
been betrayed. Thus to include the man he hated, by one master‐stroke, was
a worthy revenge, and he perpetrated the falsehood with an utter
recklessness of discovery. He was prepared to exult over an explosion of
wrath, or, better still, to gloat over an exhibition of shame and
abasement, which would have left him master of the field, in a triumph to
last as long as life. But to have reckoned on any mood of weakness, he
perceived, at once, was vain. His quiet words fell on her ears with an
unexpectedness that struck her dumb for a few moments.
Martialis must have betrayed her—had probably told all to his comrades, as
an excellent joke and boast; and for all she knew, she had, perhaps, been
the sport and object of secret laughter to every one around. Her pride
boiled—her head whirled. Her eyes dilated and her robust frame trembled as
if seized with ague.
‘Infamous!’ she cried, at length, in a choking voice. ‘But say you are
trifling with me, Afer, and this is the crown of your jest.’
‘I am not so mad,’ he replied, dwelling with complete satisfaction on the
effect of his communication.
‘From whom, then, in the villa, has such a slander sprung?’
‘That I cannot say.’
‘I must know.’
‘Drowning were too good for him.’
‘Him!’
‘Him,’ repeated the knight, with a nod. ‘There are no women in the villa
who could possibly be the author of such a story. It is certain to be a
man. Have you no suspicion?’
He could hear the grate of her teeth as she breathed heavily and rapidly
through her nostrils.
‘Suspicion!’ she cried, after some inarticulate sounds. ‘How am I to know?
A lie—it is for any one—what is easier? A scullion—Caesar—any one can make
a lie! It is another matter to discover it—the coward!’
‘Who?’ demanded Afer, starting at the fierce intensity of the epithet.
‘The coward—the liar, whoever he may be.’
‘Humph, that is true; if we could only find him out.’
He looked at her with a sidelong glance. Her face had taken a cadaverous
hue, and her forehead seemed to shine as if bedewed with moisture. Her
eyes, under their knitted eyebrows, were directed for the moment in fierce
abstraction among the thickets of the gardens, so that he had ample
opportunity for observing her.
‘Such a fabrication, mischievous as it is, is too idle to cause you
concern, Plautia,’ he said, breaking silence. ‘I see it has troubled you
as I dreaded; but, in my humble opinion, you consider it too much.’
‘Can I help, and I a woman?’ she retorted fiercely; ‘but I will be even
with the coward.’
‘He must first be found; and I think the best plan would be to commence
with the individual with whom your name has been linked in such a
shameless fashion.’
‘Do you think it is he?’
‘Nay, I cannot say. But as a beginning must be made somewhere in the
inquiry, that is the point I should select. I don’t see but what it is as
likely as any. He is tall, well‐favoured, conceited, like all Pretorians,
and more so, probably, since the Prefect makes much of him. He has
probably told his comrades some such story, as a boast of his own superior
attractions. It is a weakness of the military nature, and of the gorgeous
Pretorian nature in particular, to be vain of a supposed fascination over
females.’
Plautia smiled disdainfully.
‘I had the opportunity of coming in contact with one of his conquests the
other day,’ continued Afer, ‘a young girl with whom he is infatuated, they
say. One of the lower people only. The daughter of a potter in Surrentum,
who has some sort of reputation for his work. Wishing for some specimens
of his handicraft, as a memento of Surrentum, I went thither to purchase,
and the girl herself attended on me in the shop. A tall, lithe, handsome
girl, undoubtedly, and with a manner altogether superior to that of her
class, however she came by it.’
‘And do you think it likely, with such a paragon as this under his sway,
he would ever trouble himself to invent a lie concerning another?’ said
Plautia.
‘Oh, in the most natural manner possible,’ laughed Afer. ‘You know not
these men. Victory does not appease them. They are insatiable after fresh
conquests, like Alexander.’
‘Indeed—is it possible?’
She proceeded calmly to gather together the skirts of her garments; and
beyond the pallor of her face, the result of her great mental excitement,
there was nothing unusual in her manner.
‘If I can help you in the matter, command me, Plautia,’ said Afer.
‘I ask nothing save your profound silence—I will take the affair into my
own hands.’
‘It will be well dealt with.’
She bowed her head.
‘I suppose the Centurion is to be found somewhere in the vicinity of the
villa?’
‘He left yesterday for Rome on an errand for the Prefect.’
‘You appear to be very intimate with him and his movements,’ remarked
Plautia drily.
‘The place is so small, and its events so few, that every one seems to
know everything that passes. As for his departure, I happened to be idling
on the Marina at the moment he took boat, so that there is no mystery in
my knowledge.’
‘No matter; he will return, I presume.’
‘Ah yes, for his sweetheart’s sake as well as his commander’s. It is a
matter of jest how he invariably posts to Rome, when often he might save
himself and the Imperial horses the labour. For instance, what a fine
breeze has been blowing these three days past—a fair wind which would have
taken a swift‐sailing galley straight from the Marina to Ostia or Puteoli
without the touch of an oar.’
‘Winds are apt to fail and change when least desired. He probably prefers
the surer method of travelling.’
‘Yes, but why?’ said Afer, with a cunning smile, ‘because his sweetheart’s
home is but a few paces from the road to Rome, and thereby he gains the
opportunity of seeing her for a few moments, going and coming—that is the
real reason.’
‘And an excellent one too, Afer. He shows his devotion as well as his
sense. The woman ought to be proud of him,’ she replied, with a
perceptible sneer which filled the listener’s heart with transport. ‘Lest
it be of use to me, you may as well tell me this girl’s name.’
‘I do not know, I grieve to say, but it may be obtained. Her father is
well known, and lives on the further side of the town, close by the main
road; he is a potter, as I have said.’
‘Surrentum, I understand, contains many of them. Have you not his name?’
Afer considered for a few moments.
‘Ah, I know—it had almost slipped my memory. His name is Masthlion.’
‘Masthlion—good!’ said Plautia; ‘it may help or it may not. It is as well
to know it.’
She turned and walked quickly toward the villa, and Afer attended her in
silence up to the door of her apartments.
‘I have been the unwitting cause of bringing you great unpleasantness,’ he
said as he took leave; ‘but you will admit that I was unwilling to relate
what I did.’
‘I admit it. It was necessary for me to hear eventually—the sooner the
better. I now perceive I gave way to my anger more than the occasion
warranted, but on a woman slander falls heavier than on a man. _Vale!_’
She entered the room swiftly and shut the door, and the knight burst into
a laugh and strode off.
‘If I have not opened a Pandora’s box in my own small way, I am mistaken.
I am not to be treated as she treats that spiritless dog of a Martialis in
Rome—no, by Hercules!’